


Deck My Body In Gay Ornaments

by madeinessos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Appreciation, Complicated Relationships, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Past Friendship, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: In each corner of this red chamber a brazier hissed and crackled. The fifth one was glowing a little ways from this stone table where Hayat was laid out, naked, quite enjoying herself, and slathered with honey.“Not honey,” grunted her current patron. Who happened to be Isra.Isra, of all people.
Relationships: Grumpy Lonely Sorceress/Female Courtesan She Hires For A Ritual
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Deck My Body In Gay Ornaments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jibber_jabber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibber_jabber/gifts).



> I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,
> 
> And deck my body in gay ornaments,
> 
> And 'witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
> 
> (Shakespeare, Henry VI)

“Here, love, unlace me.”

“Of course.”

“And should I spread my thighs? Or keep them –”

“Raise your knees, please. Part them a bit. Yes. Thank you. Makes it easier for me, more comfortable for you.”

“How nice. This is so nice – oh! What is that? Can I eat that?”

*

The low stone ceiling was a faded red, rather like the mark left by a pair of painted lips pursed into a kiss. Pink lilies, curiously still dewy, slouched in an earthen jar. Drying herbs swayed above the lilies and a row of bottles, some of which were tall and jewel-tinted, the others also tall but murky. In each corner of this red chamber a brazier hissed and crackled. The fifth one was glowing a little ways from this stone table where Hayat was laid out, naked, quite enjoying herself, and slathered with honey.

“Not honey,” grunted her current patron. Who happened to be Isra.

Isra, of all people.

Hayat turned her head. “No? It feels like honey to me. Look.” And here she pressed her upper arms against the sides of her breasts, pushing them up nicely and feeling the warm slide of sticky flesh against sticky f –

“Stop moving. Please.”

Hayat glanced up from beneath her lashes, only to find that Isra had already disappeared behind her mane of curls.

Well, where was the fun in that?

Hayat suppressed a groan. But she did stay still, and she contented herself with openly admiring a sorceress’ chamber and watching a sorceress at work.

For a woman of clipped sentences and a coltish gait, Isra could be graceful in this sweltering chamber. Not the sort of grace that Hayat enjoyed showing off when dancing with friends or when entertaining her women – no, Isra’s was different. But it was good. It was pleasing to watch. An efficient sort of grace rippled through Isra: through her lean arms as she reached for bottles or gestured spells; through her corded wrists as she shredded herbs and pounded them with a marble pestle; through her olive green robes as she bustled about the chamber, muttering and methodically sprinkling ingredients in each brazier.

But she always – always – checked her step whenever she came over to peer at the honey coating Hayat.

Like she did just now.

Hayat had to bite off a grin.

Isra’s intent face was a hand-span away from Hayat’s chest.

Well, from the space between Hayat’s breasts. Pity that breasts do that when you were lying flat on your back. Hayat usually loved to treat herself and her women with a playful generous view. And the rich amber substance – potion, whatever, something like honey – certainly added a touch more of a glow to Hayat’s dark brown skin.

Hayat knew for a fact that she looked devastatingly good. Now more than ever, with her blood pumping deliciously in her throat and all the way to her fingertips. Did Isra see that? Could Isra still see that?

Someone cleared her throat.

Isra was now brandishing a silver –

“Is that a spatula?”

“It is,” replied Isra. She licked her lips and cleared her throat again. “Please. If you don’t mind. I’ll scrape it off now.”

Smiling slowly, Hayat said, “No. No, I don’t mind at all.”

Isra gave a short nod. She kept her eyes on Hayat’s own as she said, “Right. I’ll start on your collarbones.”

Isra made a gentle gesture with her thumb and two more fingers, and then her long auburn curls floated away from her face, over the shells of her rather prominent ears, and coiled into a bun low on her nape.

“That’s amazing,” said Hayat.

“Thanks.”

“Your voice has changed. Has it always been this raspy? I don’t remember.”

How would that voice feel beneath her jaw? Between her breasts? Low on her belly? She wanted that voice even more than she wanted the spatula wielded by Isra.

The corners of Isra’s lips twitched. She turned to Hayat’s collarbones without a word.

Had Isra always been this freckly? They were pretty, her constellation of freckles: auburn against her pale reddish-gold skin, dusting her broad nose and high cheekbones. Like red petals blown across the northeastern sand dunes. Hayat wanted to run after them, wanted to pluck them from the breeze.

And this close, she could have her full of Isra’s scent. Light clean sweat. Fire and coals. The dulled sharpness and sweetness of herbs. Something tart, metallic.

Carefully, almost painfully polite, Isra dipped the spatula into the valley of Hayat’s collarbones before finally saying, “Well. That was a long time ago.”

Hayat watched the dark amber substance drip from the spatula to the silver bowl floating beside Isra.

“It was,” agreed Hayat. There was a swooping sensation inside her, nebulous and fleeting. She wanted to run out of this hot chamber, feel the wind on her face, chase something, maybe petals in the breeze. But at the same time, she didn’t want to. She wanted to be this close to Isra. She wanted to pull Isra even closer.

And Hayat had never liked running.

Striving to be cheery, though there was nothing to be melancholy about because they were both alive and in good health, she went on, “And look at you now!”

Isra glanced at her. The spatula paused near the hollow of her throat.

Hayat grinned. If Isra had been half a shade paler, Hayat would’ve been enjoying a blush right now. But she was glad that Isra didn’t betray a blush; Isra would’ve disliked drawing attention to herself by something as uncontrollable as blushing.

She knew for a fact that it was there, however: Isra’s ears would feel hot and her cheeks would be a balm to cold, wind chapped lips. And Isra had liked holding Hayat’s hand. She had liked playing with Hayat’s beaded bracelets as the two of them drifted in and out of chattering and singing, in and out of a nap as the hammock swayed to the briny wind, alone for an hour without their mothers and with no chores to do. Isra had liked talking about the future. Such dreams she’d had.

It was strange, though, to know that much about Isra and at the same time – well. Well, the woman staring intently at Hayat’s collarbones, this woman with Isra’s sharp brown eyes and with the exact twitch of Isra’s lips when hiding amusement – who was she? There were twelve gaping years between the girl who had tucked Hayat’s head beneath her chin as the hammock swayed gently, and this sorceress who needed a be-honeyed naked person on a slab of a table. Who was this woman, then?

Without her permission, Hayat’s mouth kept going, “Look at you now. You fancy court sorceress, you. Although you certainly kept it to yourself, didn’t you, because I’ve never heard that you were a court sorceress and you know how this city is, otherwise I –”

“I’m not.”

“What, not a sorceress?” Hayat eyed the floating, slightly bobbing bowl.

Isra finished with Hayat’s collarbones. A shadowy groove appeared between her thick eyebrows. “I’m not a court sorceress,” she said. “Not anymore. I’m. I am not even a sorceress anymore, strictly speaking. They took my permit.”

She made no attempt to hide her displeasure about it. Not an invitation for condolences or out of self-pity, at least Hayat didn’t think so. Instead, Isra sounded like she was still the girl rustling newspaper pages and grumping about the headlines.

Now, as then, it would be oddly charming had she not looked weary whilst talking about it.

Isra cleared her throat again. She gestured at Hayat’s breasts. “Shall I?”

“Oh go on, then.”

“Thank you.”

The silver spatula was, curiously, still cold.

But Isra’s hand – oh, yes.

Isra’s palm was a warm confident cradle. Rolling. Cupping. Anchoring. Her fingertips were hot little velvet shocks on Hayat’s skin.

Goosebumps raked along Hayat’s arms. Her nipples grew tight. She could feel herself almost arching her back – but she shouldn’t move too much, for the ritual. So she didn’t. Even as Isra rolled her breast in the most delicious way, she held herself back.

Her belly clenched.

And her cunt clenched harder.

She could feel a light sweat building.

Isra’s face was unchanged. Her movements were still precise and calm. Were her cheeks hot right now?

“I might sweat,” Hayat said, in too brash tones. “Breasts sweat, too.”

“That’s fine,” said Isra, still unperturbed, before clearing her throat.

She followed this with cupping Hayat’s right breast upwards. Slightly, gently, her thumb a whisper away from Hayat’s hard nipple, before slowly scraping off the honey from the underside.

Then Isra paused.

She swallowed thickly. Hayat narrowed her eyes at that, and clenched her jaw, heart pumping, her mind made up.

Then she met Hayat’s eyes. Cleared her throat again, and said, “It’s fine. It’s essential.”

*

It was essential that the sorceress understood the difference between order and chaos. It was essential that she understood the importance of balance.

Isra understood that she was getting fucking impatient reading this edict.

A dry, irritating edict.

She was hungry. She was sleepy. She was so tired – and how had that even happened? She disliked reading official documents about anything other than the next project.

And her soup was almost ready.

Trying to influence a peace treaty without official sanction was ill-advised at best. It was fortunate that the sorceress had tried to interfere with the other party and not with the person of the queen, otherwise the sorceress would have lost more than her permit, besides her title and the grant of land in the countryside of –

Isra set the letter on fire.

She lifted the wooden spoon to her lips.

Needed more crab broth. And more salt.

Her friends always pestered her about her salt intake. Apparently salt could make you sick. Could choke you up.

Isra slowed down her salt-sprinkling.

Huh.

When was the last time she’d had friends? True friends? Not fellow apprentices she had sat with in orchards, eating fried bread and black olives between lessons. And not fellow dinner guests to the queen’s private chambers either, drinking rich fruity wine with them, mildly entertained by their stories of dances, boat parties, affairs, and enjoying being a quiet observer to their lives.

So – when?

Isra stirred the soup crossly.

She’d spent too much time in her study, had she. Too much time in pursuit of royal service. Wrapped up in dreams of prestige and childish notions of Doing Good, of Changing The World. She’d just been so fucking sick of reading bad news, all right? She had not kept track of time. Of friends.

Right, then.

That just sounded pathetic.

What she needed was a potion for – for countering this sudden wave of – of – she needed a potion that –

Isra sighed.

She looked out of the window. The sun had fully risen now. Between the dun bricked roofs, the sky was a tranquil pale blue. A breeze rippled through the orange tree, gentle, crisp. It made her curtain flutter. The dyed cotton was thick with the smells of olive oil, turmeric, and frankincense. This made Isra blink. She hadn’t noticed before.

Right, then.

What she needed was some refreshing fruit. Fruit was healthy. And there were even greens and fish in the soup.

Isra finished adding a final pinch of salt. Then she grabbed the pepper jar.

*

Moments later, Isra choked on her soup.

She started coughing. Fuck. There was some caught behind her nose. She raised her sleeve to her mouth and glared at the chopped melons on the plate.

Of course.

She remembered. The memory was a fucking slap. Shocking. And tingling. And oddly satisfying. Isra rubbed her face once. Her cheeks were warm.

Hayat absolutely loved melons.

*

Isra looked for her.

She had lost a lot of time, but she didn’t rush this search.

Oh sure, she had practically gulped down that first plate of melon cubes, but she had also lost no time in grabbing the other half of the melon from the spell-chilled box. Had heated up a knife with a spell. Had slowly peeled and sliced, savouring each moment of more musk spilling on her knife and running down her fingers. The swirling memories of Hayat that day had been as heady as that melon musk and as sharp as that heated knife. Mouth still full of the juicy fragrance, Isra’s hand with the knife had been steady even as her chest had banged urgently.

Isra had been letting this urgency simmer through her as she searched, and searched, and searched. Frothing but never spilling over. She was not in a hurry to be up and about in the mornings. Not in a hurry to set up her simple breakfast on her small table by the window. Not in a hurry to chew and sip and appreciate the view from the window. No hurry in oiling and combing her hair, no hurry in walking down the streets and asking about.

But she was excited. She couldn’t wait to see Hayat.

*

“What do you mean, the Hayat?”

“Well, my dear, is there any other?”

At Isra’s blank stare, the white haired woman behind the bakeshop’s counter laughed and snapped her fingers. “Have you been living under a rock, my dear? The loveliest Hayat! Them grand ladies’ favourite, see? Their heart’s delight, the apple of their eye, their sweetheart, their life’s joy, you must’ve heard all that rubbish.” The woman chuckled again, with what suspiciously sounded like fondness. “Everyone knows her.”

*

Hayat let her eyes flutter close. The breeze was gentle, the hammock was still, and in the distance the waves were quiet. It was as though the world had paused, and now it was drawing in a breath.

She nuzzled Isra’s collarbone and wrapped her arms tighter around Isra’s waist, making her best friend giggle. She’d never be parted from Isra, not if she could help it.

“What about you?”

Hayat made an inquiring hum.

“Told you all about my plans, right?” said Isra. She was drowsily rubbing Hayat’s scalp with the pads of her fingers. It felt so nice. “So. Do you have any plans yet?”

“Oh, yes,” Hayat said easily. “I want to sing love songs. Or even love poems, how about that. We could live in the capital together, the queen could hire me to write her love letters for her. I want to be a royal love letter writer.”

And eat delicious fruits and even more delicious cakes all day long, and wear nice clothes all day long, and read romances all day long, and meet different sorts of people all day long, and be in the company of women all day long.

“You’d be the best,” said Isra, and Hayat could hear the wide smile in her voice. “And you dance so prettily.”

“I know,” said Hayat. “And I want to steal hearts. Red is so pretty, too. And has always been my colour,” and she burst out laughing.

*

Late one afternoon, Isra finally found her.

A tall woman garbed in red and peach brocade was leaning against a lacquered bar, in a corner beside a potted palm, laughing with a small group of finely dressed women. Her black hair was longer now, done in braids falling down to her waist. But it was the same stance. Hip slightly cocked and head thrown back in laughter, it was Hayat all right, confident, at ease in her body. Red jewels gleamed on her ears and low on her bosom, but they were nothing to her wide red smile.

Isra edged her way to the bar. She found herself staring. Her mouth was dry. Another melon sounded a good idea, fleshy and juicy – no, what in the blazing hell?

She just needed a drink, that’s all. She drew the barmaid’s attention. And went back to surreptitiously staring.

Those were also the same wide eyes. The same widening, liquid-bright and long-lashed, when Hayat’s gaze landed on her.

And that right there? The same blooming of that heart-shaped face.

*

Isra’s hands were lost in the lush warmth of her. She was following the firelight sliding across Hayat. Around the curve of Hayat’s breasts, down her soft belly, slipping across her thick shapely thighs. This was a body Isra had known, once upon a time. Had hugged. Had bathed with. Had loved, so much. This was Hayat. Bouyant, brazen Hayat. Hayat who had encouraged Isra’s nattering of the future, but had also told her to enjoy life as an endless present. Hayat who had made the hammock rock. And here she was. Isra was starting to understand what those fools at court meant when they warbled about being intoxicated. Madly, unthinkingly, intoxicated with –

“Will it be liquid?” came Hayat’s voice. “This potion?”

“Yes. Can be put into your drink.”

“Oh, good! I want a taste.”

Isra’s mouth was dry again. She swallowed, cleared her throat. She made a careful swipe of the spatula beneath Hayat’s right breast. Didn’t miss the way Hayat drew in a sharp breath.

“You want a taste,” repeated Isra. “I told you this is –”

“I know,” said Hayat. “Sunrise and crisp breeze, slow waking and mouth full of melon juice. A potion for national peace. I heard you. I know what this is.”

Isra stopped what she was doing. She met Hayat’s even gaze, and nodded. “Of course. You can have a taste. As much as you want.”

Hayat beamed. “Excellent. And it’s also a potion for your peace of mind. Isn’t it.”

She couldn’t hide from Hayat. She’d never been able to. So she admitted, “Yes.”

They were silent for a while. Hayat looked like she wanted to say something. Isra made no move to continue with the spatula.

Suddenly Hayat said, “Do you have to finish it now?”

Isra frowned. “What?”

“Do you have to finish this ritual now? Is this urgent?”

“I –”

There was no hurry now. She was in no hurry.

“It takes twelve hours to percolate.”

“I can return the next day, then. I can always return tomorrow. But is this urgent?”

Hayat definitely could return tomorrow. Which tomorrow, she had no idea yet.

Isra let her eyes slide down, and up, and up. She licked her lips.

“No,” said Isra, and Hayat was bolting upright from the table and grabbing her, startling her, pulling her so close, and making her almost lose her balance if not for Isra’s timely planting of her hands on the table and if not for Hayat’s grip on the front of her robes.

Isra was still catching her breath. Her cheeks were burning. Her hands, pale-knuckled, twitched against the table on either side of Hayat’s wide hips.

Hayat’s breath was warm against her lips. “Do you want to touch me?” 

Did she ever. She wanted to clamber over the table. Wanted to find Hayat again. Wanted to gather those twelve years. Wanted her robes and skin smeared with Hayat's musk, with her inquiring kisses. “Yes,” she said. There was no question about it. “Yes.”

“Well, then.” And here Hayat drew even closer. Her gaze was still slowly roving all over Isra's face and clung like honey. “What are you waiting for?”

_**fin** _


End file.
